


Pretend We're Dead

by nihilism



Category: Original Work, Punk Rock RPF
Genre: D/s, M/M, Male Slash, PWP, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Character, dirtydirtypunkrockporn, pistol grip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilism/pseuds/nihilism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't start cryin', makes me feel bad."  </p><p>A sixteen year-old Justin meets a strange man in a dingy punk club.  Mostly an original work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretend We're Dead

Justin wanders into the bathroom, startlingly bright after the dim lights in the rest of the club. It shocks his irises a bit more, perhaps, because of the painkillers he'd stole from his mother before coming here. He doesn't like this brand, they make him sluggish, slower to react to his surroundings. Not like the morphine; those created a pleasant floating sensation that made being detatched so much simpler.

Not glancing around the room at all, the boy detours into the first open stall he sees, closing the door behind him and attempting to lock it. Of course, the lock was busted long ago. He opts instead to keep one leg bent at the knee, holding the door behind him closed as he unzips his pants. The walls shake with the vibration of the music on the other side.

A loud sniff overpowers the dampened noise, and then another. Plainly obvious to anyone in the vicinity. Justin isn't surprised, after all, lots of people do drugs in the bathroom of dingy clubs with shitty live bands.

Leech lifts his head, rubbing at his nose and sniffing again. But his eyes are diverted, to the precariously closed stall door closest to the exit. After the burning in his nostrils subsides, he slinks closer to said stall curiously. He bends at the waist, inspecting the single red Converse sneaker and cuffed pantleg, then straightens back up. Shame, he thinks to himself, that he couldn't see more. The ass had looked nice going in, from what he could see in the mirror. Probably better wait and check it out. He leans against the crumbling counter, directly in front of the stall, and crosses his arms.

The sound of the second shoe joining it's mate on the tile floor is followed by the sound of the toilet flushing, then a zipper. Justin exits the stall, mildly surprised at being affronted so suddenly but showing no sign of it as he glances at the man and then moves to the sink. And that glance tells him all he needs to know. Dark eyes, placid expression. Pale skin, but not unhealty pale; likewise thin but not unhealthy thin. Wilting green mohawk that's probably been up for a few days. Justin turns the sink on and runs his hands under the water.

"'syer name?" Unhealthy voice. Too many cigarettes, drinks, or drugs. Probably all of the above.

"Justin." Keeps his eyes on his hands as he washes them. Runs those hands through his hair to dilute the sweat.

"S'nice." Definitely a smirk in the voice; more unhealthy now.

"Right," Justin fights with the paper towel dispenser for a minute, still not looking up. "Yours?"

"Lee," he answers back. "Most everyone calls me Leech, though."

Justin notes the slight slur and wonders if that's from drug use, too, or just laziness. "Charming." 

Paper towel meets trashcan and Leech looks the kid over. Scrawny, pale, dark brown hair falling in all directions. General look of a plant that's been too long deprived of sunlight. Still, there's a certain strength about him - his stance, the way he carries himself. He has to be young, probably no more than 17, but the cold, careless tones he use don't show it.

Justin turns to find this adversary now leaning against the wall, pleasantly blocking his exit. He doesn't show any sign of panic because he doesn't _feel_ any, just a bitter resignation. He sighs.

"School night," this character, this 'Leech', points out to him. "Shouldn' ya oughta be studyin' like a good little boy?"

My god, Justin muses in disbelief, next he'll be offering candy like a true molester. Where's the paneled van parked? "Hasn't it been said that nothing worth learning can be taught, anyway?" The practiced, fluid arch of the left eyebrow.

"Mmm," Leech smirks in agreement, pushing off the wall and coming closer. Older though he is, he has to look up to meet Justin's eyes. "S'true. Why don'tcha come home with me and ya can learn yerself something real good?"

" _'Well'_ ," Justin provides automatically. "'Good' is an adjective, not an adverb."

"An' smart, too! Don't look like ya need to study none, all the more reason ta come with me."

Justin weighs his options. Go with the Pedopuppy, here (who, in reality, was likely only a few years his senior), and probably get tortured, molested, raped, maybe killed. Or go home. Sneering. This is one of those lesser-of-two-evils things.

"Lead the way."

Leech gives a grin verging on horribly unnerving, but turns and makes his way out the bathroom. Justin follows casually.

The walk out of the club and to the crumbling, delapidated apartment building is nothing to be spoken of, and nothing is spoken in the duration. A simple silence punctuated by the sounds of the streets, two pairs of shoes, and the hisses of cigarette ashes dying on wet pavement. Not a companionable silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Leech doesn't have the gall to question why Justin is still following, nor does Justin have the sense of self-preservation to ask himself. His life could end right now, and he would be the last to complain.

Leech leads him through a glass door barred with steel, up a flight of stairs, then another. Off the landing and down the hall, to a door with a crooked, rusted-brass number 3 nailed to it, along with the faint outline of another lost number. He procures a set of keys from his pocket; Justin is surprised the door even locks. 

The apartment is sparsely furnished. A beat-up leather couch, a TV set atop an old milkcrate, a stack of stereo decks in a cabinet with a mass of carefully kept vinyl records underneath (the reason, Justin figures, for the door being locked). The walls are dingy from smoke and there are questionable stains on the carpet. But Justin doesn't question them, even in his own head. 

This is a person and this is his life, no matter how questionable either of those are in themselves. For all the squalor, the place doesn't have the tense ambiance Justin dealt with at home and its lack loosens some of the anxiety pricking the boy's spine.

Leech turns to him and gives him a toothy grin. "Welcome home."

"Might as well be," Justin mutters under his breath. He didn't like that they were talking again. It was so perfunctory, unnecessary. Left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Ya from LA?" Leech is in another room now. A kitchen, divided by a wall with the nicotine-colored paint flaking off in chips. Justin joins the man, leans against said wall to observe him.

"Pomona."

Why offer this information? 

Why not?

"Ah, suburbian heaven," Leech says mockingly. 

He turns and offers Justin a Dixie cup full of amber liquid. Justin takes a sip, wincing slightly. Whiskey. He's sure he'll learn to love it once he can disassociate even the smell from his father. Takes another drink.

"Seventeen," the would-be child molester states, rather than asks.

"Sixteen," Justin corrects him.

"Ya run away?"

"For the night." Off-hand, careless words. "They won't notice."

"'course not," Leech says knowingly. "More important things ta worry 'bout, yeh?"

"Undoubtedly."

Leech smiles to himself. He likes the kid. Not just the way he looks. He likes the way he moves, unconsciously graceful; likes his clipped but somehow still articulate manner of speaking; likes the way his eyes narrow everytime he takes a drink of the whiskey.

"Ya queer?" Leech tilts his head curiously, wondering just how far he could take this before it turned into something illegal and immoral enough for the kid to say _stop_.

Justin doesn't even blink at the blunt inquiry. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Wanna make yerself aware?"

He shrugs again, that noncommittal, conditioned response, then drains the rest of the whiskey and throws the Dixie cup into a pile of trash in the corner. "Well, since you asked so nicely, and all..."

Leech grins ferally and throws the remaining contents of his cup into the back of his throat as well. He turns to Justin and grasps his wrists, pushing him against the nearest wall and covering the boy's mouth with his own. Justin tilts his chin up, returning the kiss with just as much ferocity and not even a trace of hesitance. Leech stretches those arms over the boy's head, pinning the wrists between one thin hand as it's counterpart crawls down Justin's body to find the clasp of his belt. He frees it and delves the rouge hand into the opened pants, searching out the flesh concealed there and manipulating it with practiced expertise.

Justin bites down on Leech's tounge as his fingertips creep over his cock, the first sign of surprise he's shown. Regardless, he finds himself hardening under those very same fingers and sucking on that trapped tongue viciously. Leech growls his approval, scraping his blunt thumbnail over the head of his dick and then rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

Justin isn't breathing anymore, he's sure of it. Sure that Leech has sucked the pain of being alive right out of him as he'd sucked the carcinogens out of all those cigarettes in the overflowing ashtray nearby. This - this was better than any form of inebriation, ever. This was being dominated, overpowered. This was something no squirming, writhing, moaning girl underneath him had ever given, could ever give him. This was the freedom from making decisions; decisions whether to live or die, whether to fight back or surrender. And it was fucking delicious.

The hands remove themselves and Leech steps back, a good foot away. Justin has the eerie sensation of falling as reality slams him in the face. Panting, he lifts his bright eyes to meet Leech's.

"Yeh?" Leech questions.

Justin gasps for air, almost inaudible, but he knows he's lost the composure and detachment for which he strives. "Perhaps, a bit."

That grin again: why had it seemed so unhealthy before? "C'mon." Justin follows unquestioningly, not even bothering to fix his pants, and Leech leads him into a darkened bedroom. The only reason he recognizes it's a bedroom is because the second he steps foot over the threshold, Leech's hands are on his shoulders again, spinning him around and halfway throwing him onto a bed.

"Stay down," Leech growls when Justin starts to sit up.

He kneels at his feet and unties the shoes, pulling them off along with the socks and casting them aside. Then he crawls up over Justin predatorially, letting his fingertips sneak over his hips to push the material off of them and then over his thighs, finally off of his legs completely. He yanks the shirt off with another fluid motion and Justin hears it rip, but doesn't find he's bothered to care. Leech is pulling him up now, against his chest, biting into his neck. And Justin hears his own voice moaning loudly at those teeth, is surprised to hear it make such a noise. He tilts his head, pressing the flesh against Leech's teeth in askance for him to take more. Leech does, almost snarling, feeding Justin more of that delicious pain and helplessness in return.

Leech rolls onto his back, pulling Justin on top of him by the skin still caught between his teeth. He finds those wrists again, this time trapping them behind Justin's back easily. His teeth finally relent as the opposite hand skitters down Justin's back with a sort of subdued reverrence, over the curve of his little ass and then inward. Justin tenses, briefly, inhaling sharply at the intrusion. Leech coughs out a cackle.

"Don' start cryin, makes me feel bad," he tells Justin in a purely sardonic voice.

But Justin is far from crying. Because that digit, pressing into a crevice where Justin never fathomed that they should go, somehow felt right for all the awkwardness. He hisses an exhalation and presses back against it, Leech cooing appreciatively at the movement. The finger retreats and then returns, this time joined by a second. They're ripping him apart in the most unexpectedly pleasant way and Justin finds himself rocking against Leech. Pressing back, begging silently for more, then pushing forward. Leech has begun moving with him now, his own breath coming with half the difficulty of Justin's.

Just as unexpectedly, the intrusion disappears. Justin lifts his head from where it's fallen against Leech's shoulder, gasping demandingly. Leech releases the wrists, sliding from underneath Justin. Justin listens to the movement but can't seem to move himself from where he's sprawled on his stomach on the bed. The light of a dim yellow bulb, uncovered, reaches his eyes and he closes them against it.

"This's gunna be too fun ta be kept in the dark." Leech is behind him, forcing his thighs apart a bit more and situating himself between them. The miscreant fingers return to their place, this time slicked with an oily substance, and Justin doesn't look up or question, too grateful for their return. They press into him, tearing him more and more. He can only moan for the feeling of it. Harsh, abrasive, demanding attention, something he couldn't just shut out or ignore. Something he was not, by any means, above.

The unoccupied hand moves to his bony hip, pulling him up off the matress and to his knees. He follows the instruction, not drawing himself all the way up but resting forward on his hands. The second hand removes itself and wraps around Justin's chest, pulling him all the way up and back against Leech. Justin scarcely has the presence of mind to wonder when he lost his clothes. 

Those fingers return to his ass, questing, but this time they don't enter. In their stead, Leech's cock presses inside of him. He arches his back as he fills Justin, ripping him even more. And it's gone, he's gone, not a fucking thing exists or ever has and Justin wants to scream joyously for the evaporation of it all. Then he realizes he is screaming, and there's that raspy voice in his ear, purring, praising him for the noise. There are hands stroking his tummy, softly, reassuring. Justin finds himself wondering how anyone could think to reassure him in this moment of searing, engulfing, piercing perfection.

He finds himself thrown forward again, catching himself on his palms by instinct. Leech is still there behind him, kneeling up now, rocking against Justin's ass. He can feel the movement inside of him, the tissue breaking and muscles contracting. He squirms back beseechingly, pleading for more, and Leech gives it to him. He starts to move faster, harder, hands carelessly gripping the boy's hips as he's tossed back and forth in front of him.

Gasping for air, clawing at the bare matress, grasping for any sense of self. But it can't be found, not now, and somewhere in his psyche he's thankful for that. Thoughts aren't being formed well enough to be thankful on a concious level. Just this pain, this pleasure, this back and forth motion, these things he has no control over. He's only vaguely aware of the noises Leech is making behind him as he propells him, heightening in volume and frequency.

Then he's pulled up again, back against that chest. He feels the emptiness as Leech's cock absconds from his body and feels all the more naked for it, exposed. A begging whimper leaves the back of his throat, but if the man behind him hears it he pays no attention. Leech's arms are tight and tense around him and he can feel the tell-tale shivers of an orgasm run through them. He can do nothing more than tilt his head back and stare at the ceiling, panting.

In what seems like a matter of seconds he finds himself flipped onto his back. Leech is still between his legs, leaning over now and making Justin acutely aware of why he acquired the 'charming' nickname. Sucking, horrendously fierce and demanding. His thin fingertips find their way into that mohawk, all the more wilted now, and dig into the glued mass. He knows that his hips are thrashing wildly but can't recall his brain sending a signal for them to do so, nor can he stop it. Leech doesn't seem to mind, only continues licking and drawing at his cock almost desperately. And then Justin feels himself tensing just as Leech did moments ago. Shaking much more violently than he had. Leech draws the fluid out of him, nibbling at the source of it to obtain more.

Justin feels as though he's waking up from a very long, restful nap when he reconnects with reality a moment later. And it's disgusting to find out that it still exists at all. He glances at Leech, who offers him no solace from the revelation, calmly laying on his back and smoking. Justin takes a deep breath. 

He knows that he's going to have to get up now, or soon in any case. Get dressed. Head back to the trainstation and his basement and his life and the unavoidable _living_ that comes with it. It was never pleasant, but inevitable - being alive like that.

But he knows now that he can escape it, even if only for a while. And armed with that knowledge, he suspects the rest might be just a bit simpler to ignore.

**Author's Note:**

> Leech is an original character that seems to weasel his way into just about every fandom I write. Justin is based off a certain bandmember in a certain little-known punk band that is unfortunately no longer together; you can see more of him in some of my other stories, too. 
> 
> This piece has no plot (as undoubtedly has been noticed) but served as a sort of introduction to Leech and prequel to a series of short fanfics about that punk band, which will be uploaded sometime. Please leave comments if you enjoyed reading this, or hated reading this, or were ambivalent about reading this but feel the need to offer a review.


End file.
